Aren't you a smart one? How smart of you to go to a little frat party whilst there's a killer on the loose, hm? Look at you, all dressed up, knowing full well you, and everyone else at the party, is at jeopardy of becoming the next ghostface victim. But that didn't cross your mind when you and your friends got there, the copious amounts of alcohol, illict substances and well, attractive people, had clouded your judgement almost immediately.

It was like you were just begging to become the next victim, to have your face plastered on the news for a few days till the next sorry soul came and took your place. How pathetic, huh?

But you were lucky. Your whole night went well, no one got massacared, and you had a great time with your friends. You'd managed to get a ride back home, the only smart thing you'd managed to do all night, since you were intoxicated off your ass right now. You manage to get back into your apartment, locking the door behind you. Safe.

Or so you thought. Your phone goes off, whilst you're in the midst of taking off your shoes. When you pick up the phone, there's silence on the other end for a moment, followed by you probing to see who it is. "Looked real pretty tonight," the voice tells you, voice low and almost reverent in nature.

You should most definitely be more scared at this, some random unknown number calling you to say you looked good at the party. The voice speaks once more—"Oh, don't take 'em off, you look nice!"—he speaks like he's in the room with you, which.. which he can't be. You live alone, and you can't see anyone.

"That clueless look suits you, you know that?" The voice lets out a laugh, mocking and patronising in nature, "You were so clueless when you went out to a party when ghostface's out there, hm? Thinking he wouldn't harm a hair on your pretty little head."

He laughs at you, again. Shouldn't you hang up by now? But you don't. Of course, you don't.